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On that day or on another day, Hoga and Robinson worked together as the wagons with new men came laboriously into the camp, spilling Japanese through their open sides like fruit as they stumbled to a halt amidst the high ridges and stones of the camp. The new men, under the screams and kicks of the overseers, came out of the wagons, assembled in a ragged line to the distance. Robinson continued to work but Hoga stopped, staring at the men, listening to the abuse of the overseers until their gang boss began to scream at them, and then Hoga slowly bent his head towards Robinson's as they struggled with the ties. "New men," he said.
"Why so many of them?"
To make up for those whose bones line the right-of-way," Hoga answered bitterly.
"Supplies are in!" the blacksmith shouted, interrupting the conversation. A wagon loaded with crates inched forward and behind them, Eucher, the guard whom Robinson had first met at the camp, said brusquely, "All right, all right. Don't stand around. Get 'em unloaded!"
Hoga jumped up onto the wagon and untied a big crate. At that moment the wagon lurched forward slightly, and the crate teetered precariously, ready to fall. Moving fast, Robinson reached up to resettle it. As he did so, his sleeves fell back, exposing his forearms.
Yoshihiro glimpsed them first---the tattoos that marked the inside of Robinson's arms from wrist to elbow. The tiger tattoo, with black and white stripes, on the right arm, and the dragon tattoo, with red and blue scales, on the left arm.
"A Hwarangdo!" Yoshihiro said.
Work stopped as the word spread among the laborers. Their eyes on Robinson, as if at a signal they backed up a respectful distance. Aware of the silence, Robinson looked up. As his eyes met theirs, they bowed. Robinson, returning their bow, remembered with wrenching vividness his entrance into the temple where he had earned the tattoos.
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